Belinda's Rings (10 page)

Hey, Jess said, pointing at Wiley's boa. That's from my old Halloween costume! We both burst out laughing, and Wiley strutted around talking in a high-pitched voice while we laughed with Mum until our stomachs ached, and finally Mum said, Oh dear, oh dear, I'm just no good at all.

She ended up passing the tests anyway, but only 'cause they weren't really actual tests, just something the Merle Norman ladies did to keep themselves busy. Good thing too, 'cause I don't think New Wiley would've been much fun to practice on.

Mum had never shown me how to apply makeup but I thought I did a way better job. Granted, it was pretty easy to look better in makeup than Wiley. I stared at myself in the mirror for quite a while. I thought I looked pretty good wearing the stretchy shirt. With my eyelashes all curled and darkened and my cheeks pink, I looked like one of those go-go dancers from the old New York night clubs. I did a go-go dance for myself and wished I had a pair of leather knee-boots. I was pretty sure that people at school were going to notice I looked different, say things like Wow, did you get a makeover?

On my way down the stairs, I ran into Wiley. I think I jumped a little bit because it was the first time I'd seen him off the couch in three days. That and he was smiling up at me like he'd just found the Land of Narnia. His eyes were practically twinkling.

Jesus, I said, what are you doing up so early? I had stopped on one of the middle steps, and Wiley was standing three steps below me.

Early? he said. It's six-thirty, and it's a beeeeeautiful day. You look nice.

Thaaanks, I said, eyeing him like Sherlock Holmes. He looked wired, as if he had an electric current flowing through his veins. All of a sudden I wanted to cover my bare arms and shoulders. I tugged the shirt down to cover the sliver of stomach skin that was peeking out.

What the heck is up with you? I said.

Wiley chuckled in that
if only you knew
kind of way. What's up with me? he asked. Life! he said, sweeping his open palms around the stairwell. Life is what's up with me!

Oookay, I said, pushing past him down the stairs. I need breakfast, I told him.

Wiley followed me into the kitchen. I wanted to tell him not to follow me, but it just seemed weird. I couldn't think of a good reason why he shouldn't follow me in his own house. I just had this funny feeling in my stomach, like something bad was going to happen, which didn't make much sense 'cause I'd lived in the same house as Wiley for seven years and never felt that way before.

Don't you want to hear my resolution? he asked.

Umm, I dunno, I said. Do I? I opened the pantry and started looking at the cereal boxes. I knew I wanted Cap'n Crunch but I didn't want to have to look at Wiley so I just kept tapping my finger on box after box, pulling them out a little bit and then sliding them back in.

Well, Wiley said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. I thought you'd be happy to hear that the self-pity ends here. I've resolved to stop being ruled by your mother's whims and just start living for
me
. He plonked his finger down on the table.

Good for you, I said. I hoped that keeping my back to him would make the sarcasm even more obvious.

No, no! he said. I swear! Enough feeling sorry for myself. I shouldn't have done that to you and Jess. His voice was all wistful and even though I wasn't looking at him I could tell he was hanging his head like a bad dog.

What about Squid? I said.

Yeah, he said dreamily, Squid too. You know what? His voice brightened up again.

I shut the pantry doors, turned around and looked at him like
Jesus Christ, what now?

I'm gonna do something nice for him, he said. I'm gonna do something really nice for my son. He deserves that.

Yeah, I said. Well.

Wiley nodded, as if I'd said something worth agreeing to. Then his eye caught the frilly sleeve of my shirt.

What are you wearing? he said.

It's just one of Mum's retro shirts, I said.

Wow, he said, looking me up and down. A lady already.

I giggled and immediately wished I hadn't. It was a reflex. When I was younger Wiley used to call me such a lady whenever I made gross burps or spilled food all over the front of my shirt. I could tell he secretly loved it so it always made me giggle. But it wasn't funny when it wasn't a joke. It made me feel like crawling into myself and hiding.

I ran out of clean clothes, I said, looking down at my crossed arms.

You look so —
happy
, Wiley said. Healthy. His whole face broke into a cartoon grin. I'm happy for you, he said. I'm happy that you're happy.

Whatever, I said. I have to go to school.

But you haven't had breakfast, he called after me. I was already halfway up the stairs. I didn't hear him following behind me so I went to Squid's room first. Squid was still in bed, and he'd thrown the covers off onto the floor and was spread like a starfish. His pajama shirt had ridden way up to his armpits so his bare tummy was sticking out. The rays of sun coming through his curtains landed right on his belly, making it look white and smooth as a freshly baked sugar cookie.

I didn't really know what I was doing in there. I didn't want to wake Squid up. Instead I sat on the end of his bed and watched his night-light slowly fade out with the rising sun. And I thought about how Squid used to visit the furnace in the basement whenever Mum turned the heat up, wasn't afraid of the fire and noise like most little kids. The first time I showed him the furnace I made him kneel in front of it and watch while I ran upstairs and cranked the heat. I expected to hear a scream and the patter of little feet, but he was totally silent. I found him still kneeling, peering in through the furnace slats at the pilot flame.

Isn't it spooky, I said.

The fire is blue, he said, as if nothing that's blue could ever be scary.

VI

THE TRAIN RIDE FROM
the hemline of London to Salisbury was three hours of rolling fields dotted with grey cities like lingering fog. Though she'd traveled this very route twenty years earlier, the landscape seemed entirely different to Belinda. Quaint thatched-roof cottages stood like dusty museum artefacts, remote and inhuman. When she was a child, the cottages were everyday fixtures as much as petrol stations. She never questioned the significance of the roofs or the little straw animals perched atop their peaks like beacons. An owl lived on one street, a squirrel and a pheasant on another, an ominous blackbird with one brown eye on the house up the hill. Only after she moved to Canada did she learn that each animal represented the thatcher's signature — a symbol of his ability to master his medium. Belinda allowed this idea to resonate in her mind with images of swathed crop circle grasses, wondering to whose mastery they bowed.

Belinda had never wanted to be a mother. It was the men who had wanted children. With Dazhong she had agreed because it felt like the next step. She was twenty-one and couldn't envision an alternative to motherhood. Wiley had wanted one of his own; a mini-Wiley to play with, like a doll. But Sebastian looked everything like Belinda. Even his eyes, although Wiley's blue in colour, were the exact same walnut shape, and fringed with the same long, dark eyelashes, as Belinda's.

Some time after Sebastian's birth, Belinda admitted to herself that the decision to have children was almost always motivated by selfishness. Children were a way to feel useful, and she had admittedly enjoyed feeling useful for some time. It was satisfying to know that someone needed you deeply in order to survive. But the satisfaction had long since worn off, and she had become nothing more than a faceless provider.

Of course, now that she'd had children she had no regrets. Misgivings, perhaps, about how they would turn out. Jessica and Grace were so restrained and unconfident, and Sebastian wasn't nearly restrained enough. What had she done differently? During Sebastian's tantrum phase, Wiley preached about discipline from his high horse of inexperience. Nothing wrong with playing it rough every so often, show them who's boss, he'd say. Belinda had outlawed spanking after the incident with Grace, and it had been a regular point of contention that simmered between herself and Wiley like a thick soup, wafting occasional reminders under their noses.

You know how I feel about spanking, she'd said, for the dozenth time. And anyway, it doesn't work. He thinks it's funny.

That's because you don't
mean
it, Wiley said, pointing a finger between her eyes.

So I'm supposed to batter my child with passion, is that it? Belinda said.

Well, it worked for Grace, he replied, and immediately looked sorry.

Belinda gave him a look that said
watch it
. That was different, she said. I told you we're not talking about that. Ever again.

Yeah, fine, Wiley said. But remember, Jess had the same problem as you.

Belinda did remember. It had happened when Sebastian was two and Jessica was looking after him while Belinda and Wiley were out for an anniversary dinner. Sebastian had thrown one of his signature temper tantrums because Belinda wasn't there to put him to bed. She resented Sebastian's fixation on her as much as she resented Wiley's unsolicited advice; as far as she could tell, she hadn't done anything to provoke either. In those days, even going out for dinner meant dragging a train of guilt along, because conditions had to be perfect for Sebastian to go to sleep at bedtime without a fight. As the routine normally played out, the television would be turned off at eight o'clock and Sebastian would sit at the piano bench with Wiley. He was allowed to listen to Wiley play one song (usually ‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn') while he drank his special milk, which had been warmed (not too hot) in the microwave with a dollop of vanilla extract. Then Belinda would lead him up to his room, make him climb the stairs on his own to tire him out. She'd sit on the edge of his bed and read to him from a book while he twisted his tattered blankie around and around his wrist until its tight coils spiraled all the way up his arm. When his eyelids finally drooped shut Belinda would set the book down and rub circles into his back. The circles needed to be smooth and even or Sebastian would moan, flip over, and flick his eyes wide open in defiance. To keep herself from falling asleep she made a silent game out of it, trying to draw the circles perfectly round and smooth, applying the same degree of pressure over Sebastian's back as it rose and fell with increasingly broadened strokes. Sometimes the lower half of her body would go numb under the strain of keeping her movements exact. She counted each complete circle until she reached one hundred; only then was it safe to consider making her exit. If she lifted her hand too quickly he would jolt awake, so Belinda had developed an art of gradually lessening the pressure with each sweeping revolution until her hand just barely brushed the surface of Sebastian's pajama shirt.

The elaborateness of this process often left Belinda feeling mournful. She'd allow her palm to drift off Sebastian's back like a sail catching the wind, and in her drifting hand she imagined herself, untethered, white and floating in no particular direction. Nobody else could ever possibly understand this ritual; it was knitted between Belinda and Sebastian, an unseen umbilical remnant. It was a suffocating obligation.

Naturally, Jessica's efforts to mimic the routine failed miserably. Sebastian had stood in the kitchen and screamed until his knee-locked legs trembled and his special milk was puddled between his feet. Jessica had tried to carry him up the stairs but he wriggled free and scurried back into the kitchen, his socks sopping up the milk and wiping it across the floor.

He'd gone straight for the utensil drawer and pulled out a steak knife, and when Jessica came ripping into the kitchen after him he threw the knife at her. The blade only scraped her arm, but Jessica took it personally, as she always did. She told Belinda she hadn't known what else to do; he had an evil look on his face, as if he'd wanted to kill her. So she whapped him on the bum. And Sebastian just stood there. She spanked him again, harder, and he growled. Like a wild dog, Jessica had said. When she started to cry, he laughed.

Belinda and Wiley came home to find Sebastian watching television and Jessica on hands and knees, a teary Cinderella, mopping spilt milk with the kitchen rag. The smell of vanilla had lingered in the kitchen for days. Belinda found its scent in soaps and perfumes quite sickening ever since.

It certainly wasn't normal. Sebastian had an imagination that blinded him to consequences. But although she worried about where this tendency would lead him, Belinda feared even more the possibility that Sebastian, that all three of her children, might someday see through her. That they might eventually come to resent her resentment, feed her the same guilt she fed to her own mother. The scenario had the potential to carry through generations like a disease.

Belinda convinced herself that the trip to England was as much for her children as it was for herself. She was setting an example: decide what you want from life, and don't be afraid to pursue it. Dr. Longfellow had called her commitment
soulful
in his last letter.
That kind of passion will serve you well in our
line of work,
he'd written. A passionate mother was better than a wholly disinterested mother. Belinda's mother had never been soulful about anything, not even the cross-stitching projects she insisted on filling her time with. Belinda would try to rest her little chin on her mother's shoulder and tell her how lovely the angel looked, or how expertly she'd stitched the apples on the trees, and her mother would grimace as though she were suddenly looking at a pile of vomit. Rubbish, she'd say, it's only a lark. And yet the aida cloth was conveniently laid across her lap and the embroidery thread tangled in her fingers whenever Belinda wanted to play checkers, bake a cake, or go to the playground. A lark that flew high over Belinda's head.